


Hard Headed

by WolfesPuppies



Series: Hurt/Comfort plotless ficlets [2]
Category: The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine
Genre: Concussions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:21:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22619293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfesPuppies/pseuds/WolfesPuppies
Summary: In which Nic has a concussion, and pretends he's fine.
Relationships: Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe
Series: Hurt/Comfort plotless ficlets [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627369
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	Hard Headed

**Author's Note:**

> More utterly plotless fluff! With whump, because apparently I can't just write fluff. Very short, very unedited. Enjoy!

Christopher Wolfe opens the front door, and stops for a second. The air is filled with competing scents, roast lamb, something citrusy, baking bread, and then beneath it all, the unmistakable smell of something burnt.

"Nic?"

"Chris!"

Nic walks out of the kitchen holding a wooden spoon, and that at least explains the cooking, although-

"You're supposed to be resting."

"I got bored."

"Clearly. Let me see." Nic obediently tilts his head to the side to let Chris inspect the neat line of stitches reaching into his hairline and the bruising surrounding it, eyes fluttering shut at the gentle touch. The stitches and the bruising are physical reminders of the concussion Nic suffered the week before, courtesy of an accident on the training grounds.

"The bruising is going down at least. What did you make?" Chris asks, finally taking his shoes and robe off.

"Lamb tagine. That bread you really like, with the chilli. I tried making my mother's orange cake too."

"Tried?" Ah. The burning.

"I got dizzy and had to go and lie down, and then I fell asleep, and I forgot it was in the oven." Nic sounds genuinely upset about burning the cake, and Chris understands why - Antonia Santi's orange polenta cake is the stuff of legends in the little town where Nic grew up, and there is very little Chris wouldn't do for a slice of it, and Nic's version is close to perfect.

"If this was an attempt to convince me you're better and can go back to work, you failed."

“I am better!”

“Better than you were last week, maybe.” That’s not hard though – Nic had spent the majority of the last week curled up on the bed, curtains drawn, too nauseous to move much at all. The cooking is an improvement. “Anyway, the Medica said two weeks, no arguments.” Chris is aware he’s being hypocritical here, he is by far the worse patient, but thankfully Nic doesn’t do more than raise an eyebrow.

_

The lamb tagine is excellent, and once they’ve finished, Chris steers Nic towards the sofa to sit whilst he cleans up, as is only fair. He doesn’t mention the little furrow of pain in Nic’s brow, but does take the precaution of finding some medication and getting a glass of water before leaving the kitchen in a much cleaner state than it had been. Nic is a truly excellent cook, but tends to leave a mess as he goes, something that has always baffled Chris about the otherwise impeccably neat man.

Chris leans over the back of the sofa to find Nic looking very sorry for himself, a few shades paler than normal.

“I may have pushed it too far today.”

Chris doesn’t _say_ ‘I told you’, but he definitely thinks it as he offers the water and the pills to Nic, who takes them gratefully.

“Want to stay here, or go to bed?”

Nic takes longer than he should to consider the question, the process visible on his face. “Bed. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Chris rounds the sofa to offer Nic a hand up. “Spending the night in bed with the man I love is hardly a bad thing.”

“You have work to do though.” Nic mumbles.

“It can wait. You’re hurting, let me look after you, love.”

It doesn’t take long for them to get settled, Nic leaning against Chris with his eyes shut against the dimmed glow Chris is using to read.

“Read to me?” Nic’s voice is low and a little slurred, from sleep or pain Chris can’t tell.

“It’s in Japanese.”

“Brain won’t try to translate it, s’fine.”

“Alright.”

Chris finds a good place to start, and within in a few sentences, Nic’s breathing gets heavier and more even, and the little furrow between his eyebrows disappears as the pain medication works.


End file.
